


Forget me not

by plaguish



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Basically this takes place after Blood & Wine, Blow Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Reunions, theyre gunna fuck at Corvo Bianco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguish/pseuds/plaguish
Summary: The last person Geralt could have possibly expected to see in the well-stocked dining room of his home on Corvo Bianco was one (1) somehow charming elf with attitude problems but years apart had a way of making the heart grow fonder. And needier.





	Forget me not

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a one shot but im too long winded. if tw3 wont give me the elf content i need ill just do it myself!! next chapter will probably be almost explicitly porn but u know what thats just life.

Corvo Bianco, shit, Toussaint in _general_ was damn beautiful and the mountain ranges that crept towards the sky nearly made up for the sweltering sun and entitled nobility that Geralt was still subjected to when he left his humble vineyard in Sansretour Valley. There were surely worse fates than the one that befell him, even if the contract that resulted in Corvo Bianco’s change in ownership had been a hassle (Which was an offensive understatement.) And yet, Geralt underestimated his own restlessness once it was all over and he was granted the freedom to just… exist.

The first months, genuinely, were paradise. Without any outstanding contracts, Geralt was free to put his time and effort into fixing up Corvo Bianco and enjoying good company, but Yen was never one to stay in one place for long and once the novelty of settling down started to wane, they parted ways so that she might flit from place to place to spend time with old friends and check in on how the world was faring outside of the bubble that was Toussaint. As much as she acted like being free of politics was akin to broken shackles, Geralt knew that Yennifer thrived when she was orchestrating from the sidelines. He knew she missed being a necessary piece to an always complicated political puzzle. 

Geralt didn’t mind it at all, either. After a life spent on the Path, sitting still for too long left him antsy and pent up, like his fingers itched to be curled around the hilt of a sword rather than a chalice. 

It started with small contracts here and there; clearing out an infestation of giant centipedes or archespores, and quickly turned into long nights where him and Regis would spend all their time brewing potions or pouring over clues on hard to crack curses. Here, at least, he always had a home to return to and a bed to fall into when sore muscles and stiff joints got the better of him, which was a foreign concept all on its own. Comfort was a privilege he rarely indulged. 

The only downside to Toussaint was how far he was from old friends. Friends that, for all intents and purposes, had a penchant for troublemaking and catching Geralt off guard no matter how long he’d known them. For this very reason, he wasn’t worried in the _slightest_ when he arrived home after a few days out on a contact to a seemingly ruffled majordomo who stood outside the front door with his back straight and his arms crossed. 

“Something wrong B.B?” Geralt was already amused by the sight alone, the fabric gathered around his neck giving him every bit the appearance of an exasperated pheasant. 

“ _Yes,_ Master Witcher. Some unknown individual barged into the residence. I resisted as best I could, but to no avail!” Already this situation was a familiar, though altogether untroubling, turn of events. Geralt found himself going through a mental checklist of who it could be this time, when Barnabas-Basil was now well acquainted with Yennifer. Ciri? No, she wouldn’t have barged in. She would have been more likely to befriend B.B than raise his heart rate. Dandelion? Zoltan? The last he’d heard, they both had their hands busy with the Rosemary and Thyme, and Geralt could hardly see Lambert or Eskel stopping in for a surprise visit so far away. He went through this same trail of thought with countless others, never even entertaining the possibility of who was actually there, sitting at the sturdy wooden table in the middle of the room with his feet kicked up and a glass in hand, looking every bit as though he were in his own home and not that of someone he hadn’t so much as heard from in… gods, had it been years now?

As accustomed to seeing dead men as Geralt was, seeing one in his dining room managed to leave him speechless for just long enough for the elf in question to speak up first. 

“Do you plan to stare at me and catch flies in your mouth? You sure don’t make yourself fucking easy to track, Witcher.” As annoyed as Iorveth’s tone may sound to someone who didn’t know him perfectly, _intimately_ well, Geralt knew that it was laced with nothing but amusement. Of fondness.

After all, their time together had left a lasting impression on the both of them. It had felt like a lifetime when they were working to secure upper Aedirn and settle their score with sorceresses, and yet in that time Geralt proved himself to be trustworthy, strong, and completely unlike any other dh'oine that Iorveth had the misfortune of meeting. By the time their paths were set to diverge, they were… something. They were private stares that were meaningful in how they lingered, and needy, desperate lips met first with pent up frustration and anger and later with familiarity. Iorveth and Geralt both were two entirely different forces of nature and yet somehow, they melded together perfectly. Rather than beast killer and hunter of humans, oil and water, they were two prideful idiots with an unwavering sense of duty that both knew war and helplessness and what it felt like to be hated. And yet, they had no possibility of being more. Geralt had to chase the path his slowly returning memories took him, and Iorveth left Aedirn with the Scoia’tael in tow. 

Now, hearing the elf’s voice was the confirmation that he needed to know that it was actually him without a shadow of a doubt. It was the shock to the system Geralt needed to snap out of staring and fully process that he was _here._ In Toussaint, in his home. Waiting for him to respond. 

“I passed a Scoia’tael camp back in Novigrad a damn long time ago.” As he spoke, Geralt moved to close the distance between them. “Said you got filled with so many arrows you looked like a hedgehog. That you’d been worm food for years.” Sensing the incoming hug, Iorveth put his wine down just in time to be tugged off his feet and into Geralt’s arms. 

“I’m offended you thought me so easy to kill.” Being gathered up in Geralt’s hold made all the bullshit feel worth it. His whole life, every _moment_ of it had been running, fighting, clawing for survival tooth and nail despite the betrayal and death that seemed to hang around him no matter what he did. It had left him cold and angry and unwilling to let anyone see him as anything other than what he was- a damn good Commander. Unfortunately, Geralt had left a lasting impression that knocked all of his carefully cultivated defenses down with no effort at all. He helped because he wanted to, he fought by his side, and together they did something incredible; they made somewhere that was _safe_ in Upper Aedirn. 

A lot of time had passed since then. A lot of time spent among the trees thinking about what stupid shit Geralt was getting himself into wherever he was. Whether he was safe, or wrapped up in politics like he always somehow managed to be. Steeling away would have been impossible at that time, but every now and again scouts reported back with word of the silver haired Witcher gnarled in scars and outrunning even the wind on horseback. He hated that such updates left an ache in his chest. 

It was the same ache he felt when Geralt pulled away to look down at him (annoying, why was he so tall?) when he’d craved the contact since the last time he got it, since they fell into bed together after all of the fighting was over so long ago. They were high on adrenaline then. Iorveth was now, too. 

“What brought you here? Toussaint is nothing but humans and I doubt the wine is strong enough to impress you.” 

“Is it so surprising that I came here for you?”

“You couldn’t have found me earlier? We could have used your help at Kaer Morhen.”

“I heard about it too late, nor was it my fight.”

Geralt fought a lot of fights that weren’t his own, but he didn’t have it in him to protest when he felt _privileged_ in getting to look down to meet a curious green eye with his own. Iorveth didn’t wear the scowl that so often adorned his features, and Geralt couldn’t help but to think he looked pretty almost. Pretty in a way that only Iorveth could be. It felt like a good time to drown out those thoughts with the typical banter between them that he’d admittedly sorely missed. 

“Bit overdressed for Toussaint, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been drenched in fucking sweat since I arrived.”

“You sure seemed to get comfortable with my furniture, you could have dressed down.” 

“Here for hardly 5 minutes and you’re already trying to undress me? How very typical of you, Gwynbleidd”

“Overheat then, see if I care.” Geralt moved to pull away, likely intending to take a seat or kick off his boots, but Iorveth travelled too far to not take what he’d waited years to feel again. It was stupid and reckless considering he didn’t even know if Geralt lived there alone and yet there wasn’t a force in the world that could have stopped him from knotting his fists into the front of his shirt and tugging him down until their lips pressed together.

There was so much that Iorveth wanted to say, but words were never his strong suit. He never thanked him enough, nor did he really get to express how much all of it meant to him. Saskia, the fighting, the trust that he put in him when he himself had done nothing to deserve it. It pissed him off that he even felt the need to show any sort of sincerity and yet Geralt had a way of slipping through his defenses in the very same way that sun slipped through gaps in thick forest leaves.

One kiss turned into two and three and then Iorveth felt a calloused hand moving to cup his cheek; the good side that wasn’t bisected with a healed but angry scar. He didn’t loosen his hold until they both pulled away breathless and even then, he refused to put more than a few inches of distance between them. It almost felt as though the moment he looked away, the illusion would shatter and he’d wake up. 

Luckily, Geralt didn’t seem like he was in too big of a hurry to pull away either.

“Want a tour?”

“If the tour doesn’t start and end with you showing me to your bed then I’ll-”

“Tie me down over an anthill?”  
“Or feed you to the archespores I passed on the way here.”  
The threat pulled a smile to Geralt’s lips, a _fond_ smile that made Iorveth frown with how it endeared him. 

“Can you walk or did you drink too much of my wine?”

“ _Shut up_ Witcher.” Though he was a bit unsteady, as soon as Geralt moved around the table to the close-by door, Iorveth followed at his heels and investigated the room that was opened up for him. It was actually… nice, and definitely not decorated by Geralt if the full bookshelf and ornate paintings were anything to go by. It also held a big, beautiful, soft looking bed that was nearly more inviting than the sight of Geralt not hesitating to tug off the light armor that he had been wearing from whatever contract he’d been on. His pants stayed on, but it wasn’t until his boots and undershirt were kicked unceremoniously to the corner that he looked to where Iorveth had made himself comfortable on his bed regardless of being fully dressed. Despite having half a mind to call Iorveth out for enjoying the show, he moved to the bedside and leaned down to press their lips together for one more chaste kiss. 

When he pulled back, it was to murmur his next words only a breath away from Iorveth’s skin “How’s Saskia? What the hell’ve you been doing all this time? How are _you?”_ Unlike the elf, Geralt didn’t have scouts to keep him informed. The most he’d heard about Iorveth since their paths diverged was that he was dead. 

Iorveth didn’t seem to thrilled about the line of questioning that had urged their lips apart, though it was enough to get him to start impatiently unstrapping the many buckles adorning his own armor. “Fine, travel, and I’d be much better if it didn’t take 20 bloody minutes to get out of my coverings.” To be fair, it was much quicker work when his mind wasn’t addled with a whole lot of wine. Still, he felt safe fully dressed as he was; it was why he didn’t get more comfortable after arriving. It was unfamiliar and until Geralt was by his side, he hadn’t known what to expect.

Now, however, he couldn’t shed his gloves and kick off his boots quickly enough, not even once Geralt moved to straddle his thighs so he could help with the straps closed around his chest and biceps. At least it seemed like he was helping initially, but in truth he very obviously seemed to be taking advantage of the position to ‘subtly’ shift his weight against Iorveth just enough to leave him grunting with impatience. 

“Gwynbleidd-“ Iorveth was about to utter another threat about the very real possibility of putting an arrow through Geralt’s skull if he didn’t hurry the hell up, but instead he was met with the Witcher’s hips dragging against his own and effectively stealing the words from his throat to replace them with a stuttered groan. Luckily, it only took a few moments longer for the thick belt of leather around his abdomen to be uncinched, which was the last thing preventing his armor from being tugged open now that the straps were undone and the upper layers were removed to be tossed to the floor. 

Unlike so many of the other people that Geralt had slept with, Iorveth’s tan skin was just as marred as his own. Where he had scars left from tooth and claw, Iorveth had deep, old wounds left by sharp blades or arrowheads. He had a body that reflected the fact that he was a warrior and a _fighter_ and Geralt found himself leaning down to kiss a trail from his jaw to his chest, smiling when it awarded him with fingers knotting into his tied back hair as he moved lower.

Iorveth, by now, was thrumming with a desperation that didn’t seem to reach Geralt, who still moved slow and languidly down his body until he was untying the cord of his pants and tugging them down his thighs to leave him thankfully more exposed. This managed to be exactly where his patience ran out, however, and as soon as Geralt leaned down to place another press of his lips against the jut of Iorveth’s hip, he used his grip in his hair to guide him lower, enabling him to grind his clothed cock against his cheek.  
_“Geralt-“_

“What’s got you so damn impatient?”

“Suck me off or fuck me before I use your throat myself.” 

Oh, how Geralt missed how pushy Iorveth could be even when his cheeks were stained dark and his pupil was blown wide with want. It made him terribly hard to resist, so Geralt gave in and tugged Iorveth’s cock out of his underwear to properly wrap his fingers around. The reward it got him was instantaneous, and the sight of Iorveth arching his back off of the bed in an attempt to press further into Geralt’s hold was more than motivation enough to wrap his lips around him.

Iorveth couldn’t care less that Geralt’s gag reflex sucked or that he squeezed his thighs too tight when the back of his throat was pressed into, all he cared about was getting to look down and see _Geralt_ between his thighs and furrowing his brow with the concentration it apparently took to swallow down someone as impulsive and eager as Iorveth was. Not that he’d ever voice it out loud, but unlike Geralt, he hadn’t had someone to warm his bed while they’d been apart. He was too abrasive, too _opinionated_ about who he let close to him. It left him so pent up that just hearing Geralt gag quietly nearly made him lose it and if the tight fist around the base of his cock was anything to go by, Geralt seemed to know how little it took to get him close. 

“Why are you-“ The elf meant for his voice to sound like venom, but it came out with something more akin to desperation.

“Not yet.”

“And why the hell not?” 

“You said suck you off or fuck you. ‘d rather do both.”


End file.
